


Erudition Part 5

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [14]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Martial Arts, fangirling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't ever accept gifts from Isabela.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erudition Part 5

     Cullen had long ago accepted the fact that the man he loved was a terrible liar.  It was ironic, really, given that Carver had spent his early life hiding mages from the Chantry, and then his early career as a Templar hiding his exceptional combat skill and force-of-nature personality.  But the plain fact of it was that Carver lied with all the lumbering facility of an ogre -- and when he was caught outright in perfidy, he froze and stammered and looked so pitifully horrified that Cullen usually just let the lie go, as a kindness.

     Not that Carver was in the habit of deceiving Cullen.  He did it, Cullen had noticed, only when he meant to help; for instance, telling Cullen there was nothing to worry about in the Gallows when Cullen came home too exhausted for a proper report -- which was a lie if only because there was always something to be worried about in the Gallows.  Cullen appreciated it, to be sure.  He had had subordinates in the past who'd felt it necessary to bring every little thing to his attention; Carver filtered information down to only what was important.  In many ways he was a better Knight Captain than Cullen himself had been -- and Cullen did not cede that comparison lightly.  But Carver's one great flaw was his lack of deviousness, and sometimes it showed.

     Like lately, when Carver had begun slipping out of the Gallows in the evenings, in disguise.

     Cullen knew of it mainly because of his spies:  the Tranquil, who reported to him regularly on the Gallows' denizens via his assistant Elsa.  They made for excellent espionage, ubiquitous and unobtrusive as they were, and their loyalty was unimpeachable; they operated out of the purest self-interest, so Cullen had simply made it worth their while.  Fortunately their desires were reasonable:  they'd wanted a floor of their own in the main building which was off-limits to the rest of the Gallows -- a private space in which they would not be harassed by the confusing behavior of the un-Tranquiled around them, or endless questions about their peculiar perception of the world.  They'd wanted high-quality razors for shaving their hair off, and uniforms of their own -- mage-robes for comfort, but all in gray so that they would no longer be frustrated by the unnecessary differentiation of color.  And they demanded absolute respect for their time and personhood, which both Cullen and Carver had been meticulous in enforcing.  That alone had won them to Cullen's side, as a number of them -- especially those made Tranquil by Alrik or his cronies -- had endured far worse in Meredith's day.

     Elsa, therefore, was the one who let him know that Carver had been slipping out at night.  Cullen knew anyway, however.  He was a hard sleeper most nights, but he often woke with nightmares, and lately when he'd done so, he'd found Carver gone from their bed during the small hours.  According to Elsa, on three previous occasions Carver had gone to his apartment -- the room he'd been alotted as Knight Captain, and which he very rarely slept in.  He kept his old civilian clothing there, though, which he donned along with a hood whenever he wanted to go into the city without a full escort at his back.  Then Carver had vanished, by some means the Tranquil had not yet determined.  Not for long -- a couple of hours at best, and on his return he showed no sign of injury or distress, per Elsa.  He did, however, "smell like pipe-smoke and low-quality ale," which told Cullen exactly where Carver had been:  the Hanged Man.

     Cullen did wonder about this, although only a little.  He was not worried about infidelity; that sort of betrayal wasn't in Carver's nature, and in any case he had given Carver standing permission to visit Adriano at the Rose if the urge ever struck -- a liberty that Carver had never taken, as far as Cullen knew.  And it was not so terrible a thing if Carver had suddenly developed a taste for his old haunts and friends and habits, though it did rankle that he'd felt the need to hide this from Cullen.  It troubled Cullen most in that Carver sometimes forgot to be circumspect when he was enjoying himself, and there were those in Kirkwall who would happily sell Carver Hawke -- or parts of Carver Hawke -- to any number of their detractors.  It was thus a great relief to Cullen when he woke up the morning after each absence to find Carver there, intact, and snoring faintly.

     Then one morning he awakened to find Carver propped on one arm alongside him, watching him with eager impatience, and he knew that whatever scheme Carver was about had come to fruition, at last.

     "You doing anything today?" he asked, as soon as Cullen opened his eyes.

     Cullen blinked blearily.  "No?"  Carver's question made no sense.  It was a rest day; Cullen did nothing on their rest days, by design.  And Carver himself usually slept in.  So, then:  why was Carver asking Cullen about his plans?

     But Carver was nearly giddy now as he tossed off the covers and rolled out of bed, bustling about the room and grabbing clothes for the bath.  "Yeah, I figured.  Get up, then.  Got a surprise for you!"

     Cullen sat up more slowly, blinking and rubbing sleep from his eyes.  "What in Andraste's name...?"  Carver hadn't even tried to coax him into their usual bout of rest-day-morning sex; that was just _wrong_.  "Are you quite well?  Should we see a healer?"

     "Fuck's sake, Cull, can't I do something nice without you thinking I'm demon-possessed?"  Carver went into the bathroom; the Tranquil had already been in to pour the hot water.  "Come on!"

     So Cullen obediently bathed and scrubbed his teeth and combed his hair, and resisted the urge to grumble at having to armor up on his day off.  And he pretended not to see when Carver -- with all the stealth of a bereskarn -- fetched a set of boxes from the closet where they had been hidden behind a pair of his old boots, and then frantically wrapped them in a towel to tuck under his arm.

     Bloody Maker, the man was ridiculous.  Still, Cullen managed not to laugh at Carver's red-faced straight-ahead glare, nor did he ask about the towel as they walked.  He had not lasted this long in the Gallows by making obvious mistakes.

     When they turned into one of the disused mage practice wings, however, Cullen could restrain himself no longer.  "Carver, what is this madness?"

     "It's not madness!"  Carver looked hurt.  "I've been setting this up for _ages_ , Cullen.  I even snuck her into the Gallows myself last night, 'cause I know you've got the Tranquil watching things and I didn't want them spoiling it!"  Cullen blinked in surprise, but Carver took his hand and speeded up their pace, all but bouncing in his eagerness.  "Sod it, I hope she didn't get bored.  She said she'd start stealing things if we took too long."

     "Carver -- "

     But by then Carver had opened one of the salles -- the warded, silenced, fireproofed chambers that senior mages had once used for advanced summonings, in the days when they'd had enough senior mages to need the space.  Meredith's Annulment had left the Gallows heavily underpopulated... and apparently, Carver had taken that as an opportunity to move in a few special projects of his own.

     Like _pirates_.  "About time," said Isabela as they came in; she looked exasperated.  "I was about to go see if I could find some sweet young thing in the library stacks to play with.  Or you, Carver, if you still played, and if that wouldn't get me Smitten by your handsome, infamously overprotective husband.  Not that I'd _mind_ getting smitten by him, note.  'Lo, Cullen."

     Cullen stopped.  The salle, which should have been full of summoning fonts and arcane implements, had been transformed into something entirely different:  standing mirrors, leather practice dummies, targets of varying sizes along one wall, a reed-matted floor, and --  Cullen stared.  "Is that a _phylactery_?"  Because the small rack of vials on the wall certainly seemed like one, though none contained blood that Cullen could tell.

     Isabela, who sat perched atop something that looked like a pommel horse crossed with an armor rack, snorted indelicately and hopped down.  "It most certainly is," she said, sauntering forward.  "All the standard poisons -- _and_ their antidotes are in the next rack down, if you're nervous at all about using them.  I heard a rumor you had a brush with a Crow poison a few years back?  While doing something infamously overprotective."  Cullen nodded mutely, and she shrugged, her smile full of secrets.  "These are nothing so exotic.  But do at least look at them sometime, would you?  I think even you may find them... entertaining."

     "Er... yes," said Cullen, throwing a look at Carver, who was beaming.  Cullen knew more of this woman than he cared to, despite having only met her once or twice before.  She'd been one of the Champion's companions during his time here, and -- rumor had it -- was somehow responsible for the Arishok's War.  That she'd also been one of Carver's lovers at some point did not help Cullen's vague feelings of discomfort.  Still, she was a lady, and so he bowed.  "My greetings, Captain Isabela, and Maker turn His gaze upon you.  But... why are you here?"

     "Oh, you are just _delightful_ ," she said, grinning at Cullen in a way that was quite unnerving.  "So prim and proper and... stiff, in that lovely skirt.  You're utterly wasted on Carver.  Care to try -- "

     "Oi," Carver said, though he was smiling.  "You forget the rules?"

     She rolled her eyes.  "'No talking about sex, 'cause he doesn't like it except when it's me.  Look at him all you want, but no touching outside of what you must, unless he says it's okay -- but really it's not because he's mine.'"  She'd imitated Carver's gruff tone perfectly.  "Really, Carver, you've become quite tedious."

     "I asked her here," said Carver to Cullen.  He was holding the things he'd tried to hide in the towel, which turned out to be a set of elaborately tooled wooden boxes, one larger than the other.  The design on both was familiar.  "And this is -- um -- an early anniversary gift?  Shit, what day did we get married, again?"

     "Fifth of Cloudreach," Cullen replied absently; it was three months off in any case.  "But -- "

     "Oooh!"  Isabela danced forward, bending eagerly over the boxes in Carver's hands.  "You got them?  From Wade?"

     "Made to your specifications," said Carver proudly, and he opened the topmost, smaller, box.  In it lay a pair of handsome, elegant straight daggers, although one of them had an odd little hook-like curve at its tip.  Isabela clapped her hands and snatched them from the box.

     And then she -- Cullen stared, for at first he wasn't sure what he was seeing.  A dance?  Was she sparring against an invisible opponent?  For the span of less than a minute, he was certain, she blurred through a series of increasingly deadly moves with the knives, staying low the whole time, leaping into the air once to cut down an imaginary arrow.  It was dazzling.  Beautiful, and so elegant as to make Cullen's breath catch.  And utterly deadly, as she finished by whirling and throwing one of the knives into the eye-mark of a practice dummy across the room.

     "Oh, they're marvelous," she breathed after this, straightening and kissing her remaining knife.  "Yes, I think they'll do nicely as a down payment."  She glanced at Carver over her shoulder.  "And you'll keep your promise on the remainder?"

     Carver, inexplicably, blushed.  " _If_ it happens, yeah.  I promise."

     " _Carver_ ," said Cullen, now irritated.

     Isabela chuckled, then sauntered across the room to fetch her knife.  Carver turned to him, dropping his voice into a murmur.  "Isabela's better than anybody I know with the knife, Cull," he said.  "I've seen her take down Qunari stens and laugh while she does it."

     "Yes, but -- "

     Carver set aside the empty case that had contained Isabela's knives, then opened the second case.  In it were -- Cullen stared.  They were knives, probably.  Yes, knives, but the _strangest_ knives he'd ever seen.  Each was long and thin like a poniard, but not edged at all.  _Rounded_ , in fact, though each tapered to a wicked-looking sharp tip.  The grips were unusually long, with a heavy, blunt pommel at the end.  The crosspieces were long and thin as well, each curving gracefully upward; they were almost half as long as the blade, making each knife almost a trident.

     "Isabela says these should work for your hands," Carver said.  He still spoke low, but Isabela was taking her time working her dagger out of the practice dummy to afford them privacy -- or perhaps she really had sunk the blade that deep.  "They're especially good for catching other blades and disarming opponents, and you can see how they'd be good against plate.  I forget what they're called.  But she can show you how to use them."

     Cullen blinked, then frowned.  "That's what this is?  _Lessons_?  Carver..."  He grimaced, struggling to articulate his unease.  "I appreciate the thought, but..."

     A peculiar tightness came over Carver's expression.  "You can become good enough to take down any warrior," he said softly.  "She promised me that, Cull.  Even with your hands and arms as they are, you've still got a warrior's instincts.  You just need the right tools, and to know how to use them."

     Cullen sighed.  This was his own fault.  He should never have bothered with the knife; it had gotten Carver's hopes up unnecessarily.  "Carver, that you want this for me is... commendable, but we must be realistic."

     "I _am_ being realistic."  Carver gripped Cullen's upper arm.  "You saved _yourself_ from that assassin two years back, and that was only a few months after your wounds had healed.  And with no training!  Cull, please -- you can do it.  I know you can.  Just try?"

     Cullen stared at him, then looked away.  "Very well."

     "Everything all right now?"  Isabela said, strolling back into earshot.  "Not that I'm not enjoying all this tense, impassioned conversation."

     "Everything's all right,"  Carver said, though Cullen could hear a note of anxiety still in his voice.  He supposed that could not be helped; he was humoring Carver, and Carver knew it.  "Here's the, uh, the shy knives -- "  He offered her the box containing the odd weapons.

     "Silly boy.  _Sai_ , not 'shy.'  They're Rivaini.  And these are lovely."  She stood hipshot, examining the weapons without taking them.  "My mother used to call them 'sword-killers.'"

     "Sword-killers, then," Carver said.  "Easier to remember."

     "Yes, yes.  Now shoo."  Isabela sheathed her own weapons and took the box.  "You know _my_ rules.  No peeking.  We'll be done by sunset."

     What?  Cullen frowned.  "Carver?"  This would use up most of their rest day.

     Carver was already backing toward the door, however.  "No peeking; I promise!"

     And then he was gone, and Cullen turned to regard his erstwhile instructor, wondering how soon he could get rid of her.

     "Ouch," Isabela said, grinning.  " _That's_ not a friendly look.  Is it Carver you're unhappy with, or me?"

     "Both, perhaps," Cullen said, irritated further by her bluntness.  "Carver has always been... idealistic.  Your motives, madam, I am less clear about."

     "Well, you saw what he paid me."  She drew one of the daggers Carver had given her and balanced it by the pommel on one finger, expertly, then flipped it, caught it in the air, and re-sheathed it in a blur.  "I usually charge more for lessons, but this is a favor for a friend.  But I gather the favor isn't something you wanted?"

     "No.  I am a _warrior_ , for one, and you are not."

     "Guilty as charged!"  She held her free hand to the back of her head in an uncannily accurate pantomime of arrest positioning.  "There's nothing that says a warrior can't wield knives, you know.  People like me can use swords, after all; it's really just a matter of what suits you.  And you're already using a knife, so why not learn to use it _well_?"

     "The knife is merely for show, Serrah Isabela, as is the armor I wear.  In truth, now that the sword is lost to me, I rely on my guards for defense rather than my own skills."

     "But you don't have to."  She looked at him as if he'd gone mad, and was silent for a moment.  "You could learn to defend yourself quite well, if you'd only give up your insistence on doing it with a _sword_.  In truth you probably could've taken up the mace with no difficulty; now that I've seen you, that's clear." 

     Cullen grimaced.  "I dislike the mace."  Crude, graceless things.  He was a Templar, he would not go about bashing his enemies with a club like some untrained brigand.

     She frowned and folded her arms.  "I'm beginning to think the problem isn't your _hands_ , Cullen."

     Cullen took a deep breath and tried to marshall his emotions.  It was irrational for him to be so angry; Carver was only trying to help, and Isabela had done nothing to deserve his ire.  It was only that...

     "I have resigned myself to my infirmities," Cullen said softly.  He lifted the hands in question and regarded them grimly.  It had taken years of constant exercise and pain, but he had managed to get the fingers to mostly lie straight and not curl into half-dead claws at rest.  That, however, was all he'd managed of the recuperative goals he'd boldly declared at the beginning of his efforts.  "I have surpassed the healers' best expectations for my recovery, it is true, and of that I am proud.  Yet there are simply some things my body cannot do, and there is no shame in accepting that."

     "True," Isabela said, shrugging.  "But _infirm_ need not mean _helpless_ , and you know it.  Carver believes you can do this, doesn't he?"

     "Carver is... stubborn."

     "Oh, he's definitely that," she said, chuckling -- but there was an edge to her voice now.  "A true Hawke!  And he's so adorable when he's been disappointed.  Shall we break his heart, then, and just spend the day gossipping instead of doing anything useful?  I imagine the consolation sex would be the stuff of epic sagas."

     Cullen flinched and glared at her.  "He is the most important thing to me in all Thedas, and I would _never_ hurt him a-purpose."

     "Good!"  She grinned and offered him an elaborate bow, which threw him so much that he lost his anger; instead he stared at her, wondering if she was a bit mad.  "Then let us begin Captain Isabela's Crash Course in Becoming an Utterly Deadly Force of Nature, shall we?  For Carver."

     For Carver.  Cullen drew a deep breath, counted to five, and let it out.  "...Very well."

     "Excellent.  Start by undressing, if you please."  She drew her own knives and began applying something to each blade, from a small vial that had been in her pocket. 

     Cullen put a hand to his chestplate in confusion.  "Should we not wear armor, if there is to be sparring?"

     Isabela picked up the two odd weapons from the box, twirling each experimentally.  "Mmm, good balance on these.  And no, you can't wear armor.  Best way to do this is with nothing between you and the enemy but air and your wits."  She began applying the same substance to each of the 'sword-killers'.  "And I said _undress_.  Armor, trousers, everything.  Keep your smallclothes, if you like -- or shed them. I must admit, I'm curious about the, er, _reach_ of the man who can keep Carver Hawke happy."  She grinned over her shoulder, with more than a hint of leer.

     Cullen inhaled in affront.  "Madam, I will _not_."

     She put the vial away and eyed him, and for a moment he had an uncomfortable flashback to the days when he had been in the Chantry orphanage, and had done something to earn _The Look_ from one of the Sisters. 

     Then Isabela lunged at him, so fast that he could not think to draw his dagger.  A jarring blur later, she was right in front of him -- and one of the shiny new knives that Carver had given her was wedged neatly between the edge of his breastplate and left shoulder pauldron, just above the neck of his chain shirt.  He could feel the sharp press of it through his gambeson, and he inhaled with the realization that all she had to do was turn her wrist and exert a little pressure, if she wanted to slit his throat.  And hadn't she just put poison on it?  He jerked back out of reflex, but froze as she pressed the blade in just a bit, in warning.

     "Know this, Knight Commander," she said, and her voice was playful even now.  "Armor is a liability for someone who fights like me.  It slows you down -- and you're already dangerously slow.  Too much muscle, too much weight; I can use all these things against you.  And armor teaches you the wrong strategies.  A sword-fighter parries middling blows, dodges the strongest, and lets his armor take the least.  But you are no longer a sword-fighter, and _all_ blows matter, now."

     "Th-that may be," Cullen said uneasily, trying to control his breathing, and trying to resist the urge to struggle.  "But I am still a Templar, madam, and I must wear the Flame on my person, if not on my shield, when I do battle in the Maker's name."

     "Oh, of course," she said, brightening.  "Wear it all you like, once you learn not to _rely_ on it.  Until then -- will you undress, sweet thing?  Please?  If I ask nicely?"  She batted her eyelashes.

     Dearest Andraste, he could not believe Carver had ever slept with this woman; she was terrifying.  Cullen licked his lips.  "I... shall do as you suggest, madam."  His pride made him add:  "For now."

     She laughed lightly, withdrew her knife from his armor, and shook her head as she set it aside.  "Clearly Carver isn't the only stubborn one between you!  Well, go on."

     So, setting his jaw, Cullen removed his armor and chain and gambeson, setting all carefully and neatly to one side.  And then, blushing mightily, he drew himself up and said, "Will you turn aside, madam?"

     She rolled her eyes.  "It's not as though we won't _both_ sacrifice some dignity," she said -- and then to Cullen's shock, she began unlacing her not-at-all modest bodice.  "I ask nothing of you that I would not of myself, after all."

     Cullen stared in disbelief -- until her ample breasts came free, and then he jerked himself 'round to give her his back.  "Is -- is this really _necessary_?"

     "Yes.  Quickly, please; I have only today to teach you the skills of a lifetime."

     So with a heavy sigh he stripped to his smalls, and then turned to see to his utter horror that she had done the same, though her smalls were something altogether different:  a hip-hugging narrow band of black leather with a cloth strip that ran between her legs, leaving little to the imagination.  Above this, her belly had a soft womanly curve, and higher still, her breasts hung heavy and glorious, their areolae shockingly dark against her brown skin.  Cullen stared, and then realized he was staring.  "Oh -- forgive me."  He looked quickly away.

     "It's all right," she said, amused.  " _I_ was certainly looking, after all."

     Oh, Maker.  Cullen mumbled something in thanks for the compliment, and made a conscious effort not to try and cover himself, though it was difficult.

     "And this will go easier if we're not bashful with each other," she continued.  "Now."  Since Cullen wasn't looking directly at her, she bent to pick up something, and came over, putting the hilts of the odd knives within the scope of his vision.  He took them, in surprise.

     "These sword-killers, if you prefer, are made for two main purposes," she said briskly, in such a businesslike tone that Cullen quickly forgot he was listening to a mostly naked woman.  "The first is as bludgeons; light as they are, they're still metal.  Whip someone with one and it will hurt.  A pommel-strike can break bone, in the right place.  Their second main use is as hooks.  Catch a sword or knife in the right place with these -- "  She pointed at each of the long crosspieces " -- twist, and you've got your enemy's sword.  Understand?"

     "Yes," said Cullen, surprised as the design became obvious.  He hefted them, curious, and found each to be remarkably light -- no heavier than his own dagger, though twice the length.  He could hold them easily, even with his left hand, which was weaker than the right.

     "This should be easier for you than it was for me, because you understand how swordsmen think."  She grinned and touched a finger to his forehead; Cullen blinked.  "Once you know that, using these is easy -- but there are patterns of movement, _dances_ if you prefer that term, that will make using these second nature, and those are what we shall learn today."

     So they began.  Isabela bade Cullen to imitate her movements, and paused frequently to correct his stance or posture as he did.  There were only a handful of dances, each easy to memorize and requiring remarkably little in the way of strength or stamina.  Yet as Cullen performed them, he _felt_ their utility.  He _sensed instinctively_ how to shunt aside blows that should be devastating, and how such a shunt would work in the whirlwind of battle.  Enough to turn the tide -- especially when that swordsman began to tire, and Cullen had strength yet remaining.

     When Cullen had memorized all the forms to Isabela's satisfaction, they sparred.  Isabela deliberately moved slower than he knew she could, but beyond that she stinted nothing.  Each time Cullen failed to deflect her strikes, she tagged him with a shallow scratch.  These burned like fire, because of the stinging oil she'd applied to her knives -- "The better to teach you to _get out of the way_ ," she said, laughing when he hissed at a slice across his pectoral.  "Imagine if that were poison?"  So Cullen tried harder to avoid her knives, and as the day wore on, she stung him less.

     "It is like shieldwork," he exclaimed when she finally called a halt.  They sat on the floor, recovering from that final bout.  "The shield is not all bashing and blows; once you learn it well, there are angles to be exploited, nuances of counter and inertia..."  And then he trailed off, because Isabela was grinning at him, and he realized he had been gushing.

     "That's more like it!" she said.  "The forms are easy, like I said.  Speed and skill comes with practice.  If you perform these dances every day, the same way every time, the movements become second nature.  No one else will use this room, so you might as well come here to do it:  I told Carver you'd need it, so he's had it set aside for this express purpose."  She rummaged in her discarded clothing and came up with a key, which she handed to him.

     Cullen considered the key and what it meant.  He was tired, stinging all over from the half-dozen cuts she'd left on him -- he hadn't tagged her once -- and all his muscles ached dully from unusual use.  Yet he no longer felt like the clumsy, useless, helpless _thing_ he had been since the Inquisition had taken his sword.  She had given him this.  And if he kept at the practice...

     "You are kinder than you seem," he said.

     Isabela, who had stood to begin putting her clothes back on, scowled in the middle of shoving on a boot.  "Oh, why does everyone keep saying that?  I'm not kind.  I'm a stone-hearted bitch who would sell her mother, if her mother hadn't sold her first.  Honestly."  She sheathed her knives and stretched to settle her breasts above her corset.  "If you want to say something nice... oh... flatter me shamelessly.  Tell me I'm better in bed than you, and that Carver pines for me constantly."

     Cullen chuckled and reached for his pants.  "I have given up hope of ever measuring up to your skill and allure."

     She grinned.  "Good man."  Settling her jewelry into place, she winked.  "Well, that's it, then."  She turned to go.

     "Isabela?"  When she stopped and turned back, Cullen stood and touched one of the sword-killers to his forehead, in formal salute.

     She blinked, and for a moment her smile was softer, proud.

     "Kick his arse, next time you spar," she said, with a wink.  Then she sauntered off.

#

     Cullen was quiet that evening after his bath, and Carver was nervous of him because of it.  When they lay in bed together -- Cullen on his back, one arm under his head; Carver on his side, not quite hovering -- he touched one of the cuts on Cullen's chest gingerly.  The stuff on Isabela's knives had had some healing properties, apparently; the stinging had finally stopped, none of the cuts were inflamed, and all seemed to be healing cleanly.  Still, Carver frowned and said, "I don't like that she cut you."

     "It was for a good cause."

     Carver scowled.  "I'm still gonna give her a good talking-to when I see her again."

     Cullen glanced over at him, surprised, and only then saw the worry in Carver's face.  "Oh, my knight; forgive me.  You're worried that I'm unhappy."

     Carver bit his lip.  "Are you?  I knew you wouldn't want to do the knifework training, but... I thought if I surprised you..."  He ducked his eyes.  "And I figured if it worked, then you might not be angry after."

     "It worked.  I am not angry."

     "Thank the bloody Maker."  Carver lay down, resting his head in the crook of Cullen's arm and snuggling closer.  "Can I watch you practice tomorrow, then?"

     Cullen considered.  "No.  I am clumsy yet, Carver; it will take time for me to master what Isabela has taught me."

     "Oh.  Well, uh, right then."  Carver fell silent and went still, but Cullen felt the slight tension in him.  His hand, where it rested on Cullen's belly, kept fidgeting -- picking his nails, cracking a knuckle, scratching a half-dozen itches along the backs of his fingers -- until Cullen finally chuckled and took his hand, and guided it farther down.

     Carver wrapped a hand around him at once and sat up, eyes gleaming in the dim bedchamber.  Cullen smiled and touched a finger to his lips; Carver shivered all over and opened his mouth, touching his tongue to Cullen's fingertip just for a moment.  Then he pulled away and bent down, and Cullen shut his eyes, relaxing beneath his beloved's gentle ministrations.

#

     And in the morning he rose, and went to the practice hall that Carver had made for him, and there, alone, he danced.

#

     He waited until he was sure, and then waited longer.  Three months, altogether -- until finally one morning he faced himself in the bathroom mirror and knew that he was being a coward about it.  So he took a deep breath and said, "Carver."

     "Mmn?"  Carver was still in bed; it was their rest day again.  Cullen shook his head and went to the door to look at his lover, who was half buried under the pillows, facedown with arms splayed across half the bed.  All the covers were balled around him; Carver took them whenever Cullen wasn't there to fight for his share.

     It was tempting to resist change, Cullen reflected as he stood there, and wavered.  To be content with what he had -- and he had so much, he knew now; he was a lucky man, all things considered.  For every trial he had suffered, there had been joy unmeasurable; for every loss, a gain that was equal or greater.  He smiled to himself as he crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing fingertips along Carver's spine simply because he could, and because that was the sensible thing to do when a beautiful young man lay naked and willing in one's bed.

     But when Carver murmured unintelligibly and smiled, Cullen took a deep breath and said, "Get dressed.  I have a surprise for you."

     "What?"  Carver yawned; his eyes were still closed.

     "If I told you, it would be a poor surprise.  Come, my knight; you need no armor, but bring your sword."

     Carver's eyes flicked open at this.  Cullen brushed the hair from his temple, bent, and kissed him there.  "I shall be in my practice hall, when you are ready."

     Then he got up and headed out of the apartment quickly, before Carver could do more than push himself up and blurt, "What?" and before his own courage could desert him.

     He had worked through the first of Isabela's dances to warm up when the door-latch turned -- Cullen usually kept it locked -- and Carver came in.  He still looked a bit sleepy, but he'd washed his face and neck, and he blinked warily as he came into the chamber.  "You sure you want me to see this?" he asked, his eyes widening a little at the sight of Cullen shirtless and breathing hard from his warmup.  "You've been so sharp about keeping it to yourself, this past while."

     "I know," Cullen said, blushing a little.  "But I am ready now, and I want you here."

     "All right, then."  Carver shrugged and moved over to sit on the floor.

     "No, no."  Cullen pointed to the floor opposite himself.  "This is not a demonstration.  I desire a match."

     Carver froze, halfway down.  "You want to spar?  You sure?"

     Cullen licked his lips.  "I'm sure.  Please."

     Carver's face went unreadable.  "All right."  He straightened and came to stand where Cullen bade, shaking out his arms and legs to limber up, looking Cullen up and down.  "Hadn't you better armor up?  Maybe I should go get mine, too."

     Cullen shook his head.  He had kept his pants and boots on, and in truth he had begun to practice in armor lately, for he felt that he had learned Isabela's lesson about not relying on it.  But for this, he trusted Carver not to cut him -- and at last, he trusted himself not to be cut.  "I do not mean to draw blood, only defend myself, so you should be fine too."

     Carver had spent too many years playing cards with people like Isabela; when he put his mind to it, his face revealed nothing.  He nodded once.  Then licked his lips.  "Maybe we should just do a few slow-strikes.  I don't usually go hard against knifers."

     Cullen smiled thinly.  Now who was being overprotective?  "I know.  But the whole point of this was, I assume, to make sure I would have the skill to survive another assassination attempt, or a battle.  It only works if you 'go hard', love."  He drew his sword-killers from the sash he'd taken to wearing to hold them, and flexed his hands carefully around them, making sure of his grip.

     Carver nodded then, a few times more than strictly necessary, and unlimbered his greatsword.  "Right, then."  He took a stance, and a deep breath.  When Cullen nodded, he lifted the sword and brought it down in an overhead strike -- well away from any vital points on Cullen's body, Cullen noted, and slow as molasses, for Carver. 

     Annoyed, Cullen swatted at his sword as it snailed past.  "Do not _coddle_ me, Carver."

     Carver's jaw flexed.  This time when he swung, a powerful backhand slash that could easily have taken a lesser warrior's head off, Cullen caught the blade between two of his crosspiece-hooks.  The shock of it jarred up his arms in a way that made him wince.

     Carver, whose mouth had fallen open when Cullen trapped his blade, inhaled.  "Cullen, if this is hurting you -- "

     "No!"  Cullen untangled their blades and stepped back, flexing his wrists carefully; the pain had faded as fast as it struck.  "No, I can endure a little pain.  I doubt I'll be able to manage a sustained battle, naturally, but the nature of this sort of combat is that most battles will end quickly, in one way or another."

     But he was smiling as he said it.  Because _Maker_ , it had felt good to catch that swing, and see that flash of shock in Carver's eyes.  Cullen hopped a little from foot to foot, feeling ready for anything, and some of the worry faded from Carver's face.  Carver said, "Well, I guess... all right, then.  You ready?"

     Cullen nodded, sinking into the opening stance of the second dance Isabela had taught him:  one leg extended and his weight balanced on the other, one arm pointing a sword-killer directly at Carver, the other cocked and ready as an archer's arrow near his ear.  "Come."

     This time Carver was faster about it -- still not as fast as Cullen knew he could be, but respectable, at least, as he threw a lateral strike.  Cullen had learned his lesson this time.  Instead of catching the blade he shunted it upward with one sword-killer, ducking underneath, then whacked the back of Carver's hand with the pommel of his other weapon.

     Carver cursed and quickly stepped back, shaking his hand.  "That hurt, you fucker!"

     "I said no blood," Cullen said, grinning now.  "I didn't preclude _pain_."

     "You said you were only going to defend!"

     "Yes."  Cullen grinned and took another stance, crossing both blades before himself.  "I did, didn't I?"

     Carver stared at him, then burst out laughing.  "Oh, you sodding _liar_.  Knew I shouldn't have let Isabela teach you anything..."  He twirled his blade, just testing the air, then settled into an attack stance of his own.  "Yeah, well.  You want to be an arse?  Maybe I'll put you on yours."

     "Then you should do a better job of attacking, my sword.  I've hardly broken a sweat."

     "Oh, you -- _right_ , then."  Carver's attack was a real one this time, all fire and force and ferocity:  a quick jab at Cullen's face to throw him off-balance and then an overhead strike.  But Cullen merely dodged the first blow, and braced himself for the strike when he saw Carver's weight shift in preparation for it.  When it came, he crossed the sword-killers and caught the full weight of the blow, grunting with effort and twisting to one side _just so_ as Isabela had taught him and then yanking _down_ \--

     -- and snatching Carver's blade right out of his hands.  The greatsword clattered to the floor as Carver stood there gaping.

     "Well?" asked Cullen; he was breathing hard.

     Carver stared at him, eyes alight.  "Bloody _Maker_."

     Yes.  _Yes._   Cullen licked his lips and turned away, pacing quickly back to his end of the reed mats and assuming the third dance-stance.  "Pick up your sword."

     Carver was grinning fiercely, though he obeyed and fetched his blade.  This time he did not dither; when he came at Cullen, it was just shy of a full-out attack, that one remove his only concession to this being a sparring match.  Carver had gotten faster in the past two years, Cullen realized as they skirmished from there.  He had to work harder, to use every trick Isabela had taught him and then a few more improvised on the fly, just to stay off the defensive.  And slowly, he began to understood why she'd taught him the various movements as patterns of dance:  as he fell into the rhythm of battle, his body moved faster than he could think or second-guess, reacting with now-ingrained habit.

     The skirmish ended in a flurry of blows.  Cullen did not take Carver's sword this time, but he did foul it with one blade while he made a jab with the other toward Carver's belly.  He stopped it short, and Carver leaped back, but as they disengaged, he could see it in Carver's eyes:  in a real battle, that would have been a killing wound.

     But something else was in Carver's eyes as they paced a circle 'round each other, catching their breath for the next round.  "Andraste's Sword, Cullen, I'd almost forgotten what it was like to spar with you.  I've _missed_ that look in your eyes!"

     Cullen could not help grinning back.  "So have I.  It is good to be strong again."

     Carver stopped pacing, his smile fading.  "You never stopped being strong, you bloody idiot."  Then he raised his sword and grinned.  "But it's about damned time you _thought_ of yourself that way, again."

     Never stopped being strong?  Cullen broke stance and gazed at one of his sword-killers, and the hand that held it.  Still weak, but bolstered by new skill.  It hurt now, half-cramped from gripping the hilt for so long, and the bones of his forearms ached from the jarring force of Carver's blows.  In a real battle, he would have to end things quickly and decisively.  Now, though, he could take a little pain if it meant having this pleasure with Carver again.

     Carver was obviously thinking along the same lines.  "Maker, the look on your face....  Maybe it's just that you're fighting half naked, but I want to fuck you so bad right now."

     Cullen looked up at him and smiled.  He felt strong and alive and _hungry_ , for so many things.  "Defeat me, and I might let you."

     Carver looked faint; his lips were wet.  "Void, Cullen, how am I supposed to fight when my dick's this hard?"

     "Be glad you're not wearing your armor codpiece, then."

     "Yeah, it pinches something awful when you _sodding turn me on in the middle of a battle_."

     Cullen laughed, and the sound was high and wild in his ears.  "A Templar's strength," he said, resuming his stance, "comes from his focus.  Now.  If you will not come to me, then I shall bring the fight to you -- "

     And he ran at Carver, who cursed and managed -- just -- to deflect Cullen's first strike.  But not the second, because Cullen skidded to a crouch when Carver's retaliatory swing passed over his head, and before Carver could draw his blade back, Cullen neatly hooked it out of his hands. 

     He was up and had the other blade at Carver's throat in half a breath.  " _Yield_ , my love," he said.

     Carver stared at him, breathing hard.  Then he spread his hands and dropped to his knees, licking his lips.  "So I'm at your mercy."  He was grinning, his gaze heavy with meaning and invitation.  "What are you going to do with me?"

     Oh, Maker.  Cullen didn't even think before he dropped his sword-killers, letting them thunk into the floor and quiver there like arrows.  "Get those clothes off," he commanded, and turned to head over to the phylactery.

     _Even you may find them entertaining_ , Isabela had said -- and when Cullen had finally overcome his reticence enough to actually look at the rack of poisons, he'd nearly fainted from embarrassment.  The top row of vials was carefully labeled and had bright red rubber stoppers to mark them as poisons.  The second row had beige caps:  the poisons' antidotes.  The third row, however, had dull green stoppers, and the labels held names like _Night of Desire_ and _Wild Warrior_.  Aphrodesiacs, in other words, infused into various oils.

     He picked up one at random:  _Andraste's Honey_ , though he grimaced at the label.  Then he strode back to Carver -- who now lay naked on his own shed clothing, one hand tucked indolently behind his head and the other idly stroking his beautifully hard cock.  He watched Cullen with hooded eyes, and Cullen had to stop for a moment and take a deep breath, lest the urge to just fall on Carver like a ravening beast overwhelm his reason.

     No.  He craved focus, control.  He had _fought_ for this.  "Turn over," he said, toeing off his boots and unfastening his pants.

     Carver did not obey at once; he watched until Cullen's cock came free, and at the sight he let out a long slow breath and shuddered all over.  Then he rolled onto his belly, balling his own shirt beneath himself to raise his hips.  Cullen kicked off his pants and knelt straddling Carver's thighs, petting his mabari tattoo with one hand and uncorking the vial with the other.  The scent of the stuff was strange, musky, impossible to identify -- yet whatever it was, it went right to Cullen's groin.  He licked his lips and poured some onto his fingers and thrust these without preamble into Carver, who gasped; while he worked these gently about, he poured a bit more from the vial into his free hand, corked the remainder with his teeth and tossed the vial aside, then reached under Carver to tug and caress the ready length of him.

     "Oh, fuck..."  Carver shuddered again, violently, lifting his hips higher.  His hands clutched at the woven reed-mats.  "Oh, fuck, Cullen, why's that feel so good?  Why's it -- nnh -- "  He shifted, rubbing one foot against the mats, turning his head and moaning, making incoherent pleading sounds.  His own fingers were tingling, Cullen realized:  hot and cold and shivery-sweet, reacting to something in the vial oil in a marvelous way.  And there was something about the way the scent of it changed with the touch of hot flesh which made his head spin.  He kissed Carver's back, letting his breath spill over all that sweet smooth skin, and Carver cried out, pushing back against him.  "Maker's sake, Cullen, please!"

     Yes.  Cullen withdrew his fingers -- Carver made a desperate sound -- and moved to cover Carver's body with his own.  "Say that I am stronger than you."

     Carver's laugh was wild.  "Oh, shit, Cullen, I told you, you've _always_ been that!"

     Cullen closed his eyes, sliding his cock along the cleft of Carver's arse, shuddering violently as that cold-heat sensation began tingling into his skin. "Perhaps.  But say it."

     "You're stronger.  Fucking _yes_ you're stronger!"

     "Say that you are mine, my knight."  He bit lightly along the curve of Carver's shoulderblade, smoothed an oily hand over his deltoid.  "Say that I may have you."

     "Nnh, y-yours..."  Carver was barely coherent; he'd put his forehead down on his braced forearms, trying to push back and _make_ Cullen take him.  "I'm yours, Cullen, please, _please_ fuck me, Maker, take whatever you want, anything, everything -- "

     Cullen closed his eyes.  Then he bared his teeth and held Carver down and fucked him relentlessly, focus and control gone, thoughts boiled down to the simplest iterations of _want_ and _relief_.  He had no idea how long this went on.  There was none of the gradual build of pleasure he was used to.  He was just there, on the brink of it all -- _held_ there, _hovering_ there, as if the oil had caught him in that exquisite moment just before orgasm and spun that moment into an hours-long torment.  So he was caught by surprise when Carver shouted, so loudly that Cullen came out of the fugue enough to wonder whether he'd remembered to lock the door -- and then the pleasure grabbed him and threw him somewhere beyond thought and he lost himself for a while.  When he came back to reality he was muffling his own cries against Carver's back, his _teeth_ were ringing, and Carver was a limp-limbed groaning puddle beneath him.

     "F-flames," Carver said, as they both caught their breath.  "You... oh, Maker, you got that from Isabela, didn't you?  Didn't I tell you... don't ever accept gifts from Isabela?"

     Cullen laughed into the back of his neck.  Maker, his balls actually ached.  Was that normal?  Could that _happen_?  "No.  You must have forgotten."

     "Oh.  Well, don't ever accept gifts from Isabela.  She forgets men can't handle this shit.  Maker, I think I had heart palpitations."  Carver folded his arms under his head, apparently content to just keep lying there with Cullen on him.  Cullen quite understood; he could not seem to find the wherewithal to raise his head off Carver's back.  "You okay?"

     "I am well, my knight."  He murmured it with eyes closed, utterly relaxed.  "Better than well.  Thank you."

     "That was sodding _mutual_ , Cull."

     "I meant the lessons, Carver."

     "Oh.  Yeah."  He shifted a bit.  "Get off me.  I want to look at you."

     So Cullen sighed and made an Andrastean effort and slid off Carver's back, flopping onto his side.  Carver rolled to face him, then took his hands.

     "I wanted to see you happy again," he said simply, shrugging, and Cullen blinked in surprise.  "I mean, I know you were okay with not being able to fight.  You can Smite people back to the Exalted Age if you need to, and anyway, _we're_ your weapons.  All us Templars who want to do things the right way.  Everyone in Kirkwall who supports us.  This whole city, it's your real sword and shield.  But I don't think you saw all that, because..."  He faltered, then shrugged.  "You kept looking at your sodding _hands_."

     Cullen frowned.  And, tellingly, he almost looked at his hands, though he jerked before he kept himself from doing so.  Carver's face softened, understanding, and he lifted one of Cullen's hands to his face, kissing the knuckles.

     "I will do anything for you," Carver said, softly.  " _Anything_.  You don't even know, Cull.  But it's not me you need, it's _you_.  So, I wanted to give you... _you_... back."  His face screwed up in frustration.  "Fuck, that didn't make any sense."

     "It did."  Cullen cupped the back of Carver's head with his free hand, dragging him close so that their foreheads rested together.  "It did.  Oh, but you are wrong, my knight; I do need you.  _You_ are the greatest gift the Maker has seen fit to bestow upon me, and I will be forever grateful for that."

     Carver chuckled, blushing a little.  "Yeah, well.  I'm mostly just grateful I was drunk enough to try that little surprise blowjob maneuver on you, that first time.  And you were drunk enough to let me."

     Cullen smiled and looked away, shyly.  "I wasn't really very drunk that night, Carver."

     And Carver looped an arm around him and pulled him close to whisper in his ear:  "Neither was I."

     They both laughed, and that was the end of words.  They slept awhile, then made love again -- slower this time, and sweeter without the oil driving them half mad -- then curled together until very late.  Then because they'd gotten oil and other things all over their clothes, they sneaked back through the hallways half-dressed, sniggering like schoolboys as they avoided the night-patrol, and kissing like newlyweds in the shadows whenever the coast was clear.

     It was, Cullen realized the next day, when he finally paid attention to the calendar and the date, the best anniversary he could ever have wished for.

#

     There was a little grumbling, mostly among the senior knights, when Cullen had Flame-inscribed sheaths made for his sword-killers and started wearing them openly, on either hip.  It wasn't traditional, said the knights with the courage to do more than grumble -- thought Cullen noted that they said this to him only when Carver wasn't around.  Everyone understood that Cullen couldn't wield the sword and shield anymore, but did it have to be _knives_?  And some kind of barbarian Rivaini knives, at that?  It made the Gallows look bad to have a commander who fought like a heathen thief.

     Cullen challenged the loudest of his detractors to a duel, then disarmed him in seconds.  When the man protested that it was a trick, Cullen had him take up his sword again, and he disarmed him again -- and again -- and again, finally giving him a cut to the forehead for good measure.  The man yielded; after that there was no more grumbling.

     Cullen had already written a note of thanks to Isabela, a few days after his match with Carver, but there was no response for several weeks.  The messenger said she'd gone out to sea.  But eventually he found a thick packet in the pile of his correspondence, which he opened with some puzzlement.  In it was a note from Isabela, thanking him in return for the entertainment.  He had no idea what this meant until he read the attached sheaf of documents, and slowly realized that it was a fictionalized account of "Ser Sullen's" first sparring match with "Ser Arverd", another knight with whom he was romantically involved.  The fight scene rapidly devolved into something so shockingly prurient that Cullen gasped and dropped the sheaf, scandalized.  But it had also been uncannily accurate, up to the part about the manacles.  Manacles!  Really.

     Perhaps he had better share Isabela's vulgar tale with Carver, just so that they could clear up a few matters between them.  For example, in the future when Carver shared tales with his friends, Cullen felt that he should demand accuracy in their repetition, if only for the sake of quality.

     Although... there _was_ a spare set of manacles in Cullen's practice hall, wasn't there?  He'd seen them hanging from a hook on the wall, and assumed Isabela had put them there for some unfathomable training purpose, same as she'd had the pommel-rack-thing and the mirrors and everything else put in there for Cullen's use.  Perhaps, with those, he could help Carver put verisimilitude to principle.  Perhaps with a judicious application of Andraste's Honey to help him remember the lesson...  Smiling to himself, Cullen sat back to contemplate the hearthfire, and to make plans for their next sparring match.

     After all, Carver _did_ have a birthday coming up, didn't he?

**Author's Note:**

> So, this isn't really an Erudition -- too much plot, not enough porn -- but I'm completely out of canticle names! If the urge to write another Templar Canticle strikes, I have no idea WTF I'm going to do. Maybe this is the end, then? I should really write something new.
> 
> This was meant to be plotty, of course, and it turned smutty because I've had a super-stressful week and once again I resort to writing porn as stress relief. (And drinking, but I suspect the porn is healthier.) But I've been considering Cullen's injuries in the context of Dragon Age: Origins, in which rogues could use swords if they were strong enough and warriors could use knives if they were agile enough -- just not as effectively as the classes that were meant to use those weapons. And I considered HereLies' suggestion that Cullen use a mace, and my own resistance to it, which basically amounted to an "I just don't *like* maces" ::kicks can:: sulk. I decided that Cullen would sulk too, just in a more gentlemanly way. But of course Isabela ain't got time for that silliness -- not when there's two lovely men on hand to play such delightful games with. Cullen really hasn't figured out yet that Isabela's given him a kink dungeon and an excuse to use it with Carver, but he'll catch on eventually. Carver probably figured it out when he saw the mirrors, but he knows better than to say anything and scare Cullen off. In the meantime, I'm sure Isabela will send them more "friend fiction" to give Cullen fresh ideas.
> 
> (Huh. What is with me and kinkifying Cullen? Maybe I should just write some Isabela stories and get that out of my system.)


End file.
